Dear sir or madam
(inside the walls of Bedlam),
there is no problem
(no ogre or no goblin).
Therefore, no solution
(inside this institution)
requires your attention.
(I just thought I'd mention.)
LIFE ESCAPES THROUGH MY HANDS LIKE FINE SAND BETWEEN MY FINGERS
TIME DISINTEGRATES IN FRONT OF MY EYES WITH NO WAY OF SLOWING DOWN.
THE INEVITABLE CREEPS AROUND THE DARK CORNERS AND LURKS IN THE SHADOWS, WISPERING IN MY EARS, DESPERATE TO POUNCE ON ME THE MOMENT I AM VULNERABLE AND EXPOSED TO ITS ELEMENTS.
FEAR OF ABANDONMENT LAUGH AT ME.
CHRONIC FEELINGS OF EMPTINESS PARALYZE ME AND ROB ME OF MY SLEEP AND PEACE.
I SCREAM IN A ROOM FULL OF PEOPLE AND KNOW ONE HEARS ME, AND I CRY AND LET MY TEARS DO ALL THE TALKING WITHOUT SAYING A WORD.
A REPRIEVE FROM MY GOD IS THE ONLY THING I LOOK FORWARD TO, AND FORGIVENESS FOR MY DEEDS AND SINS THAT TORTURE MY SOUL....
He walked a tightrope for a while
toed the line with guile
as the popcorn crowd ignored the show
But his slow, deliberate pace
brought him no-more-close to grace
than had he jumped to nameless fortune’s call below.
This, he came to know.
So...he drank his guts out for a while
heaved up sorrows in a pile
of wretched whiskey-pricked despair
But the Mysteries couldn’t lose
if he ruined all his shoes
and rent out all his dumpster hair
He resolved, again, to care.
So...he beat the Bible for a while
suffered through a Saviors Trial
with bloody thorns and ashes on his head
Bringing in the sheaves
he taunted prostitutes and thieves
until some wino thrashed him next to dead.
It was something he had said.
He bounced in Bedlam for a while--
mattress walls, halls of tile
and ring-around-the-rosies in his head
And when the Angel Death appeared
he wore a bonnet with a beard
and danced a disco-dirge around his bed.
They found him dead.
....he flew to paradise in style,
they met him with a smile.
Shock
by Michael R. Burch
It was early in the morning, in the forming of my soul,
in the dawning of desire, with passion at first bloom,
with lightning splitting heaven to thunder's blasting roll
and a sense of welling fire and, perhaps, impending doom—
that I cried out through the tumult of the raging storm on high
for shelter from the chaos of the restless, driving rain...
and the voice I heard replying from a rift of bleeding sky
was mine, I'm sure, and, furthermore, was certainly insane.
Published by Penny Dreadful, The Eclectic Muse, Fullosia Press and Poetry Life & Times. Keywords/Tags: shock, mental illness, imagination, dream, surreal, storm, rain, night, nightmare, nightmares, insanity, bedlam, dreams, lightning, thunder, rift, sky, red, bleeding, bloody, voice, voices, shout
gavel, raffles,
travels unravels.
palming, bombing,
becalm, embalm.
death on-death on
becalm, becalm
2/9/20
Written by James Edward Lee Sr. 2020©
We filled satin roses with birdseed
not wanting to harm the birds
I could have used my own flower pouch
little balls inside to keep me strong
Every misfire began as a bloom
dreams and desires whisked their blossoms
and fueled them with breath and heartbeats
intentions were laden with benefit
But I grew peonies entwined with weed
my energies spilled into twists and pulls
careful not to unearth my own root
too distracted to avoid storms
Now I feel and watch as rains fall
with no sun in my eyes, irony is clarity
but my heart aches for petals
broken by bedlam and gone in its wind.
Your memories haunt me
Like a ghost from Bedlam
—One that keeps me wondering
Why I ever let you go...
There's still a part of you
In what is left of this heart,
Which does more harm than good
Beyond all I could tell...
I still see your pretty smiles
—That of all, I recall the most;
I still hear your tender voice,
Very much often than not...
Like twenty million times,
I've heard you say goodbye;
And almost twice that number,
I've seen you cross my path...
Those memories haunt me
Like ten ghosts from my past;
Although I have let you go,
But you're still here in my heart.
He sat on the bed of roses
They were spread in a confused manner
Certainly intrepid in their graciousness
Their petals waning at their edges
And there alone, he sank into another
She was distant in his dream
He was imagining all the need, the drunkness
Like he had had a dose of laudanum
Conspicuously poising itself on his solemn sorrow
With the wit he had left and the sanity he could collect,
He made for the drawer
Collected a collage of her dresses
And marred together with the roses
The red, the yellow, the white,
Her best colors made him another cushy bed
Kitumba
THE BEDLAM
Creature of Madness
And Lo, then rose The Bedlam from its lair,
dark creature infiltrating night
creating from its darkness unseen sight
infecting every fiber of life’s core
demanding from those lessened – even more.
Demon eyes that peer from deep within
the souls of maddened ordinary men
consumed in empty terrors without end.
Misshapen countenance constrained
by mind so fully twisted to deranged
the physical takes on the face of fear
flaws of growing madness coming clear.
Thus does The Bedlam cut one from the herd
starve him till he feeds upon his self
devouring what might have set him free
imprisoned in its moonless lunacy.
Now mindless the maddened sits alone
tormented gargoyle slowly turned to stone.
John G. Lawless
6/8/2015
submitted to – London’s Pantheon of the Gods – Poetry contest
sponsor – Jerry T Curtis
BEDLAM WAR SATIRE
Spring here in all her glory.
Bedlams in a field with mummy munching grass,
fresh green shots in small bellies. What is this?
One bedlam has blood round her mouth.
Been eating severed fingers of dead soldiers, still fresh.
Not the bedlam’s fault that war came
to their field killing daddy bedlam stone dead.
Maybe this finger pulled the trigger
on the gun that killed him.
Stupid soldiers, all dead.
Best to be a life bedlam.
Woe unto you, Oh! mortal man
For from amongst your brethren soon shall you depart
Depart and be made whole with the death clan
For death only awaits, when with your brethren you part
Woe unto you, Oh! mortal man
For from before you crept past and fast, life
You,like in an abbatoir, a vegan
Dilly-dallied vainly and in strife
Woe unto you, Oh! mortal man
For you countable days were tempestuous
Uneasy like a swinging fan
And the tales of your life,vicious
For from your bossom erupted volcanoes
Sprouting forth evermore
Great upthrow and more like bellows
And you knew peace nevermore
Why not drown in this wave-like illusion
And so simply blind what they call meaning
From any meaning whatsoever.
Swim in a whirlpool of meaninglessness?
Floating objects are all we are.
Lost amongst smiles and laughter.
Feigning a little joy, maybe sadness.
Driven by this violence we call lust.
We are nothing. Nothing at all.
We are but bundles of changing emotion.
As limited as a fish in its fish tank. Bumping into
Corners of endless glass walls. Pretending to swim
Freely in the ocean.
Delight of the night, light and the half lights
Cleft sensation grips the arch in fascination
Lips taunt the tips as they swell in ********.
Sizzles of heat, in sweat filled condensation.
Blush whisper the shadows as the love sighs.
Enticement moves the camber in eager flow
Bewitched, smothers her bodily lust to slow
Nipped bud, craves the finger touch to glow.
Limbs falter in wetness, gorged harsh captivity
Eyes waver to the lustful body in fusion bouts
Aromas fume to break again, in passion clouts
Tranquility surrenders to the taut thieving lout.
I remember you
cartoon smile and egg-shaped head.
Do you remember
how the rainbow formed on the water,
how the neon lights flickered,
or the scent of nectarines on your forehead?
They were happy to see for the first time
behind glass window,
between speaker box voices --
unopened package,
untouched collector’s item,
you shiny new contraption,
star of the play,
hero of the hour,
flavor of the season.
Seed of your father,
soil of your mother.
Fruit of love,
fruit of conflict.
Decision’s aftermath,
delusion’s consequence,
Are you accident,
intention,
problem,
solution?
Bough in the river,
wrenched in the current.
Hand reaching for hand,
hand holding your own.
Bedlam baby with the guilty smile
do you remember
how you would not fracture the mullioned frame,
how you could not shatter porcelain,
or how you hid in changing alleys?
I will save you
you will save me.
My hand in yours.
I am the boat
you are the journey.
Now hushed bleak sterile corridors
recall the cries, laughter and tears
of those once termed insane;
all is still now.
Rooms behind forbidding windows,
shutters slam-dance lazily in the breeze;
all is empty.
No actual cells, no straw on cruel stone floors
or padded walls,
reality is cracked linoleum and Formica;
all is quiet.
The local Bedlam towers black,
decaying dead slumber,
etched against a red-tinged horizon.
No movement now within the confines
of her walls,
other than upon the evenings of the
Autumnal moon, when perhaps
resonances of the past send strange
drifting spectres to walk the balconies
and pace the grey great hall,
acting out the bygone dramas of this home,
this refuge, Asylum.
Those who would dare to
venture here
on such tragi-comic nights would see;
but no one comes here and no one sees
and all too few care or understand,
for all that is past are now dead memories,
and all that is to follow
is the truest madness...
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